


Hunter-King

by were_lemur



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Drabble Sequence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-20
Updated: 2010-04-20
Packaged: 2017-10-09 01:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/were_lemur/pseuds/were_lemur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A challenge answered, in seven drabbles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hunter-King

**Hunter**

Crushing pain, with every movement, every step.

Never mind it.

Every breath burns and chokes, but it doesn't matter. He won't let it matter. Only one thing does: find the little ones. Wherever they've been taken.

It's been three days since Pippin and Merry were taken, three days since Aragorn pulled the arrows from his chest and bound the wounds. He won't let himself think about what might have happened in those three days.

Just put one foot in front of the other. Wipe away the blood he coughs up before Aragorn can see it.

He will see this through.

 

**Fallen**

What happened?

He passed out when they got to Edoras; everything since is a blur. He thinks he remembers being put on a wagon, evacuating the city. Preparations for a battle. Women and children crying.

It's quiet, now.

Fighting dizziness, he makes his way through the corridors. He hears voices, and follows them to a large hall full of people. He hears his name, and nearly falls when he turns to see Legolas and Gimli approaching.

"You shouldn't be up," Legolas says.

"What happened?"

"We held."

But then the crowd parts, and he sees the corpse on the bier.

Aragorn.

 

**Desperation**

He returns to Gondor to find his father dead, his brother dying, Minas Tirith a shattered ruin.

His friends dead.

Someone, he decides, must pay.

As he stares from the broken tower across the field toward Mordor, he seizes on a desperate plan, born of pain and loss and grief and not a little madness.

Deep down, part of him knows it is not sane, he asks too much; his forces barely survived their last battle. But cold fury is all that lends him any strength.

"Get the army ready to move," he orders. "We march on Mordor at dawn."

 

**Victory**

He does not expect to survive the final battle; none of them did. He hopes, at the last, only for the chance to strike a blow, to take a few of them down with him.

But to his surprise, he finds himself standing on a battlefield empty of foes, looking up as Mount Doom erupted in conflagration.

The long march back seems unreal; he finds himself almost disappointed to be alive. He has no wish to be the last of the Fellowship. And he does not see how Frodo and Sam could have possibly survived the destruction of the Ring.

 

**Despair**

He sits alone, on the cold stone floor of the throne room, turning the white rod of stewardship over and over in his hands. For millennia, his line has held Gondor in trust for Isildur's heir.

But now, the line of kings is broken. Aragorn is dead. And he cannot help remembering his words at the council in Rivendell. Gondor has no king. Gondor needs no king.

"I did not mean it!" The words are wrenched out in a sob, and the pain to his not-quite-healed wounds is nothing against the pain that batters his soul. "I never wanted this!"

 

**Estel**

"I know you did not," says a familiar, quiet voice. He opens his eyes, to find Aragorn kneeling before him. He takes Boromir's hands between his own, his grip warm and strong. But...

"I saw you dead, laid out for burial."

"I was given a few moments to speak with you. You must lead Gondor from darkness into light."

"Gondor has been fighting against the shadow for so long..."

"As have you." Aragorn's voice is soft. And that is what finally breaks him. Sobs wrack his body.

"You can." And then he feels Aragorn's kiss on his brow. "Be strong."

 

**Dawn**

And then he is alone again. For long hours, he sits, silent tears on his cheeks.

But finally, as the sun slips upward on the horizon, he pushes himself to his feet. He feels hollowed out inside, as if the grief and pain and guilt have been washed away. His first steps are unsteady, but his tread gains sureness as he walks.

He walks through the castle, until he reaches his goal. There, he sets down the white rod of stewardship. He stands, staring, for long minutes, before reaching out his hands to take up the winged crown of Gondor.


End file.
